


on this bridge between starshine and clay

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Racism TW, slurs tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Your shirt is red.





	on this bridge between starshine and clay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> \- warning for racist slurs: these were actually used in the 80s and they're quite horrible. They've been starred out, but please tell me if I should remove them, because i'm not sure what the convention is on historical accuracy and racism.  
> \- mention of Hillsborough - I mean no disrespect, and, again, please tell me if this isn't okay. It's something John has cited as having a big impact on him.  
> \- title from ['won't you celebrate with me'](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/wont-you-celebrate-me) by Lucille Clifton:
> 
> i made it up  
> here on this bridge between  
> starshine and clay,  
> my one hand holding tight  
> my other hand; come celebrate  
> with me that everyday  
> something has tried to kill me  
> and has failed.
> 
>   

 

_Everton are white. Everton are white. Everton are white._

_So fucking what,_ you want to say. The bile rises thick and fast in your throat. You keep your head down, keep your eyes on the ball, keep your feet on the ground. Everton are white, they declare, leering, their spectral faces pale in the stands. As if it's some kind of badge of honour. Everton are white equals Everton are better.

 _So fucking what_ , you want to say.

Someone throws a banana at you and you catch it with the back of your heel, tossing it away as nonchalant as anything. Like you're kicking away a coke can or a plastic bag; it falls on the sidelines and no one goes to pick it up. Even when you're on the other side of the pitch it's there, mocking in the luridness of its colour. Yellow. White. Black.

Your shirt is red, their shirts are blue, but it doesn't quite matter, does it.

 

 

*

 

 

\-- I named you after John Charles, says your father.

\-- Who's he?

\-- The greatest Welsh footballer who'll ever live.

Your father gestures to one of the photographs in the newspapers he's reading. There's a big lad on the sports page, tall and strong and powerful, barrel-chest smashing away a defender as he leaps towards the ball. He looks like a hero. Someone kids aspired to be when they grew up; someone fathers named their children after.

What he doesn't look like is you.

 

 

*

 

 

Your name is John Charles Bryan Barnes. A good, plain sort of English name. Your father used to be captain of the Jamaican national football team, which gives you maybe a sliver of hope that you might one day be _something_. You don't know what it is, yet. All you know is that people give you a ball and you can dazzle.

The question isn't, can you play. The question is, will anyone notice.

Your name is John Charles Bryan Barnes. And you think that one day you might do something important, something that matters, but now you are a skinny twelve-year-old from Jamaica with teeth that stick out and an accent so confused both the whites and the blacks don't quite know how to treat it.

 

 

*

 

 

Listen. You're hearing that too, aren't you? Round and round the stadium it goes. You strain your ears - it sounds like the Everton fans are chanting _Liverpool_ , but that can't be. They wouldn't do that if they were caught dead. Yet you can't be mistaken; it's sweeping through Goodison and it Peter throws you a glance.

_Liverpool, Liverpool -_

Kenny is looking at you as well. Not the pass-the-ball-lad look you've come to know, but more sharp, like he's worried, even though you can't make out what's bugging him.

The realisation hits you fast and sick in the stomach. They're chanting, and it rhymes with _liver,_ but it starts with an N instead.

You're trapped. The field is an open, exposed nerve; even the bench will offer you no comfort. All they have to do is press and you will break. You dig your fingers into your palms until the pain sears into your brain, jolting it back into action.

Your shirt is red. Your shirt is red, and nothing else matters.

 

 

*

 

 

\-- Barnes.

Richard peers at you with an air of clinical, professional interest, like he's a zoologist studying a specimen. You shift in your seat and rub the ball of your thumb against the rough page.

\-- What?

\-- We're playing five a side in the park after dinner. Keen?

\-- Sure.

You say that, but you're blinking. The grammar school tie is too tight around your neck and you thought they played rugby, anyhow. Richard nods, like he's won something.

\-- Good. Don't be late.

His voice is short. Clipped, at the edges. You return to your book. From the corner of your eye you see him walking back to a bunch of his mates, all of them preppy and slick. Smiles on their faces. Leering and pale.

\-- I got the c**n, he says.

You turn the page and press your fingers into it until it tears. Your name is John Charles Bryan Barnes.

 

 

*

 

 

_There ain't no black in the Union Jack, Johnnie Barnes, Johnnie Barnes_

You'd think it'd get easier, but it doesn't. It doesn't. You're nineteen, for fuck's sake. They're burning crosses in the stands.

It's a great country, John, your father had told you the first time you came, stepped off at the airport and had the label _BLACK_ slapped onto your chest without warning. Land of Shakespeare and Nelson and Churchill. Upholder of democracy and rights and human values.

Here you are, playing for human values, and the fans with the cross of St George draped over them - the same one on your chest - they're shouting things you just hope your mother doesn't hear.

_Ain't no black in the Union Jack_

This is supposed to be the greatest day of your life. You're walking onto the biggest stage of world football. It's the kind of day people write down on VHS tapes, _28.05.83_ , pull out again when all the family's here and your parents want to remind everyone what a great son they have.

Well. You have a feeling this isn't quite going to make home video. The game goes on so you go on, but every step you take is filled with bruises. St George is your own cross to bear.

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes -

\-- This is Jamie Redknapp, Kenny says. You've all heard of him, of course, Harry Redknapp's son, seventeen-year-old prodigy, most expensive teenager Liverpool has ever signed. You expect him to be as cocky as that price tag deserves, but he peeks out from behind Kenny and gives an awkward little wave.

 _He's pretty_ is your first thought. _Stop_ is your second.

But he is, and if it's any gratification your teammates think the same thing. Pretty boy, they call him, pin-up, and it's harmless enough until it gets to the root of the implication. Liverpool isn't paying a million pounds for a handsome face.

It isn't for a black one, either. You understand that; you have tried to show that you understand, every time you step onto the pitch. You wonder if Redknapp will do the same.

He walks towards you first, of all people, wide-eyed and his hand outstretched.

\-- John. Call me Digger.

\-- I know, he says, and with the shake his smile gets bigger until it's like watching a flower bloom quietly in the back garden. Like watching someone meet their heroes. Like you, maybe, if you ever met John Charles.

\-- I've seen you play. You're good.

\-- Thanks. He splutters, trying to find the right word. -- Not even a little as good as you are.

You blink, but he's already moving on to the next player. Same smile, same hand outstretched, but he keeps looking back at you, sneaking glances like sweets, flushing when you catch his eye.

 

 

*

 

 

_Scum._

It's not fantastic, but it's a word that works. You appreciate Philip Carter's denouncement even if it doesn't really mean anything. Five years ago no one would have bothered at all, would they?

Baby steps. Sit in the white part of the bus until something changes.

The bus is the pitch, and you sit with your feet - your boots that dance, tangled in the grass until they can't be seen, the white defenders that you waltz past with consumate ease, making them out for fools. Everything is easy when you can play, see. Everything is easy when you can play for them. The Kop opens its arms and claims you, _he's one of our own_ , two fingers up and a sneering moral superiority reserved for the scum.

They have short memories. You dance, but not only because you want to; you dance for them, but not only because they protect you. You dance, because you are afraid of what happens if you stop.

 

*

 

 

Do you know why you are playing?

 

 

*

 

 

It doesn't take all that long for them to come. The moment the rumours start, and if one thing hasn't changed it's that they start early, they appear in dozens, slipped through the mailbox without a stamp, crumpled amongst the meagre Watford fan mail.

_dont you dare sign for my club n******_

You read some of them, like a kind of masochistic ritual all footballers indulge in, except. The lads were discussing the funniest hate mail they'd ever gotten the other day - _my grandma's first touch is better than yours - you can't run you fat fuck - couldve bought a new hamburger stand instead of yous -_ and you hadn't said a word.

_no place for monkeys at liverpool_

Liverpool are the greatest team in England. Liverpool are the greatest team in the world.

_Liverpool are white_

\-- Come on, lad, Kenny says. You're one of the greatest footballers I've ever seen. D'you know what you can do? You don't want to play for Watford. You want to play for Liverpool.

And you do, you do. You don't know why. Maybe it's the longing to be a part of something so much bigger than yourself. You had that, a little, with Watford, but Liverpool is _known_ for this, the scarves in the Kop, the flags, the song that reverberates from the stand every game.

_i hate black people_

There was Howard Gayle, who shone too bright and burned and faded into ashes. Now you. Maybe, you think, it's because if you conquer this - this bastion of the working class, this unspoken symbol of (white) British pride - then maybe you could be English after all. A man, not a colour.

You'll hear them sing your name.

 

 

 

*

 

 

The first time he gets into your bath, you look around to check if anyone's saying anything. Most of them are in the showers; a few lads are in the baths next to you, but they're looking away or have their eyes closed. He smiles at you uncertain.

\-- Seems a waste to run a new one.

You let his explanation slide. It's the only reasonable one, even if it still doesn't make sense.

\-- Just don't use all the soap, yeah?

He turns pink. You raise an eyebrow.

\-- Sorry. I just - I can't believe I'm in the same bath as _John Barnes_.

\-- I can show you my birth cert.

\-- No. No, I mean, you're _John Barnes._

It's starting to get a little funny, even though you have no idea what's going on. There's a white boy sitting in your bath for no reason at all. Saying your name like he doesn't think it's real. Why wouldn't he think you were real?

\-- I can pinch you, if you'd like.

\-- Yeah.

So you lean over for a laugh, roll up a patch of skin under your fingers and give it a squeeze. He isn't laughing. It takes you a moment to realise you aren't laughing, either.

Your legs touch careless under the water.

 

 

*

 

 

Your name is John Charles Bryan Barnes. Your shirt is red. You've won the league, there's a medal around your neck, and the Kop has gotten out their voices.

_When you walk_

You pump the trophy into the air, fingers wrapped around the silver never wanting to let go. The faithful cheer and you have never heard them scream so loud. There is only one colour today, one, the colour of flares that light up the darkest of nights.

_Through the storm_

One-nil against the Spurs. Four games to spare. You look around and wish every day could be like this, every moment of your life. The pureness off feeling. The hammering in your heart. The adrenaline that jolts through your hands, like touching the grass is electric. You wish this could be the be all and end all; winning the league, not winning the league. Sometimes the weight on your shoulders is so heavy it is almost suffocating. Tomorrow the papers will write:  _first black player to win the league._ And someone will read that and send in something stupid and everything will begin anew.

But you are here. You are here, now. One-nil and four games to spare. The medal is around your neck.

_Hold your head up high_

You are walking, you are walking, you are not alone.

 

 

*

 

 

Here's the thing about you that no one and everyone seems to understand: you are fucking _brilliant_.

You're like nothing that's come before, black or white, and maybe there won't be another after, either. Certainly nothing with your talent, the way you glide in and out of defenders like a downhill skier, poise and grace and elegance twined around nerve and steel.

_Barnes, with as much strength as he can muster. Oh, my word. What can you do about that? Absolutely nothing._

You're thundering down the left flank, twisting and churning until the opposition are left feeling seasick. You're dancing your way through on goal, delivering the sweetest of crosses for Peter to stick it in. You're floating on air, and people will remember you the way they remember watching Ali for the first time, where they were when Kenneth Wolthenstome said _they think it's all over_ \- _it is now!_

Unflappable. Powerful. Sublime. Mesmeric. Perfect.

Here's the thing about you: no matter how brilliant you are (and you have bags of it, an abundance of talent, so beautiful to watch it almost seems unfair), it doesn't matter. You are different from everyone else. Everyone. You are the first black player to cost that much, and it fills you with pride, but.

Here's the thing about you: you play with Beardsley, Aldridge, Rush. You play for the greatest team England has ever seen. You play until Phil Thompson rates you in the same breath as Dalglish and Souness. You are fucking _brilliant._

No little white boy will have your posters on his wall.

 

*

 

 

 

Do you know what you're playing for?

 

 

*

 

 

\-- Why England?

Your father does not understand. He is Jamaican. He grew up with people who looked like him; his neighbours were black and Jamaican, his friends were black and Jamaican, and things were easier, in a sense. He knew where he belonged. You have grown up in Watford, amongst rich white boys with RP accents, and Jamaica is only small and so very far away.

It's more than that, you tell yourself. You love England, the broad expanse of pitch, the way football becomes a religion, the flags hung up in Sainsbury's every time a national tournament rolls around. Here children are allowed to dream. There is a sense of expectation of greatness, sixty six all over again.

You want to be a part of that, by god. You want to taste glory on your lips.

\-- You are not English.

You do not understand. This country has spat on you, abused you, told you that you didn't deserve to be alive. It has turned away and murdered people simply for being different. You remember the ten-year-old from primary school, coming up to you in the playground.

_N*****, n*****, n*****, pull the trigger, bang bang bang_

This is the country you want to play for, and you do not understand. But when England come knocking you put pen to paper anyway. It could be anything from selfishness to selflessness, from wanting to build a reputation to wanting to tear down another. It could even, simply, be love. 

You hope it is. You don't know if you want to find out.

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes -

There's the name of a place, somewhere in the North of England, where fans went in and never came out. There's the name of a place, broad steps and high gates, a number burned into memory. The word makes you sick to your stomach.

You're on the pitch when it happens and you want to run over and help, but there's nothing you can do. You go to services and hospitals and everything that you can after, but there's nothing you can do. You watch them fight injustice and lose and you feel for them, you feel them, and the story is always, always, always the same: there is nothing you can do.

You play on, and it is difficult. Your brave face has had a lot of practice. That helps.

This is not about you, though. None of this was never about you. This was always something bigger. And for that, you have to try. You have to try. You have to try.

 

 

*

 

 

There's something about Redknapp, even if you can't put your finger on it. It's not that you play so well together - and you do, he's like the cog you've been looking for all your life, slotting beside you like the last puzzle piece - it's not that he gets into your bath now and again. It's not even that it's Harry Redknapp's kid, and it's weird to have a mini-celebrity in the dressing room who's only just debuted.

It's that you're the first person he comes to for advice, and when you give it to him, he comes back for more.

And you can't figure it out. What would you, ten years older and already a fading force, possibly have to say for him to hear? Why would he, raised amongst the football elite so far removed from a Jamaican military brat, possibly want to listen? The questions bubble up in your throat every time you see him. His smile makes them go away.

 

 

*

 

 

Your name is John Charles Bryan Barnes. You are twenty years old, and you have just scored the most incredible goal England has seen and will ever see again.

It happens like this: you see the ball coming through the air and chest it down. There's a defender to your right, closing in faster than the one on your left. You stretch your leg out. Let the ball run. Catch it with your instep, drag it away from the defender and back towards you like it's on a string. There's another defender in front of you. You bank to your right, following the ball as it rolls, shielding it with your body. The defender falls to his knees, pulling himself back upright only to realise you've gone.

Keep your head down. Keep your eyes on the ball. Listen to instinct. There's a teammate, throwing himself out of the way. There's an opponent, sticking his boot in. You land with your weight on your back heel. He takes the bait. Makes the tackle. You touch the ball once and take it past him.

One more's coming for you. You don't slow down or speed up, you just run. He moves back. You move forward. Your momentum is a pendulum by now, a surging, unstoppable wave. He shoves you. You ride it, twist, turn your back on him. The goal's in front of you. White posts. Fluttering net. You slide the ball along with your left leg. Swap it over to your right. Don't think. Keep running. Draw your foot back.

There's a beautiful moment every striker knows the taste of, when they're through on goal and they've hit the ball and the goalkeeper is scrambling forward with no chance. When that moment hits, they take their eyes off the ball, stick their hands in the air, savour. Breathe. It's different for everyone; a rush of adrenaline, a flurry of sumptuous, arrogant self-indulgence, a jolt and burst of the heart. For you it's a ray of sunshine, and you don't think the sun has ever shone brighter than this.

The ball rolls softly into the net.

One last tired, slow challenge runs into you but you aren't even aware of it, picking up your balance even before you fall. Someone grabs you by the shirt. Your hands are in the air. Your feet are in the air. Everyone is running towards you, _you_ , twenty years old in the heart of football, the land that produced the greatest of all time.

England one. Brazil nil. Barnes, '44.

Your cross is red. Your shirt is white.

 

 

*

 

 

It's your ball to Mark that makes for the second goal, and they acknowledge you again; wrap their arms around you, hot and heavy with the sweat of the Brazil sun, _good job_ and _well done_ yelled into your ear till you beam.

In this life, everything is blind, and only your feet matter. You think you'd be okay with that.

 

 

*

 

Nothing lasts forever, of course. Nothing lasts even a few minutes. Bryan's tilting his head. You follow his gaze; your heart drops. _They're_ there, the spectres you can't shake, leering and pale, creased into rage.

_We only won one-nil_

You wish they'd fucking make up their minds already, whether they want you to count or not count. They need you to exist so that they can take aim at you, but they don't want you to be real.

\-- They're children, Bryan says, and you understand he means well, but that doesn't help. Children have no inhibitions. Children do whatever they want to whomever they want, and it is precisely that they are children that's the problem. You curl your fingers into fists, prop your chin up. Children are the ones who choose the heroes.

 

 

*

 

 

Everyone deals with it their own way, because its hurts and scars are never the same. Howie Gayle, you know, used to get into fights; Viv Anderson used his feet to do the talking. The Three Degrees bore their names with impeccable grace.

You find, for your part, that taking it less seriously allows other people to take it at all. One of the costume parties you go as a Klansman and people laugh, even though it isn't quite all funny to you, but even Bruce relaxes around you after that.

It's a luxury. Howie never had the middle-class life that you have had, so he never had the means to let things slide. He had to fight for every ball. You can take liberties he'd never even dreamed of, but you don't take them for granted. Speak up. Get inside the way Howie would never be able to do. It isn't just a luxury, it's proof. A weapon.

 

 

*

 

 

\-- Hey, Jamie.

He blinks, looks over with those liquid eyes of his, smiles.

\-- Yeah?

You don't know what possessed you to call him over; you don't even have anything to talk to him about, Christsakes. Except he looked so very pretty, sat on the edge of the bench with his nose wrinkled in concentration, that you felt like you didn't have a choice.

\-- What kinda music d'you like?

\-- The Anfield rap.

You laugh until you realise he's not even joking. He comes over and sits down next to you; you try not to react when his fingers touch yours.

\-- Honest. Dad had to smash my records and then I'd go out and buy another one.

He's looking at you with an intensity that unsettles, and you, having never had this kind of attention, look away.

\-- It wasn't that good.

\-- You kidding? You could've made a record of you singing nursery rhymes and I'd still have bought it.

He pushes his hand closer. It's all the daring and naivety of an eighteen-year-old who doesn't quite understand the rules. You've got enough on your plate without having to think of this, too.

\-- Jamie.

Your heart aches when you say his name, and he flinches. Takes his hand away from yours. It's the right thing to do, and you know it, but your skin burns from the absence still. He looks at the floor almost petulant.

\-- Would you really have bought my nursery rhymes?

His jaw twitches into an unwilling smile.

\-- 'Course.

\-- Why?

\-- 'Cause you're my hero.

Your world jars. You're Jamie's hero. Jamie, son of Harry, middle-class as you'd like, privileged in all the ways that matter. Jamie who probably had never heard an insult against him in his life, smart and talented and kind, lucky enough not to be hated for things beyond his control. Who could have had his pick from any of his father's famous friends, from the great Liverpool teams of Rush, Dalglish, Souness. Who somehow, inexplicably, without thought for consequence or ramification, chose you.

You're not sure you heard him correctly.

\-- Really?

\-- Oh, come on, Digger, have you seen yourself play?

He says it like it's the only thing that matters. _Have you seen me_ , you want to ask, but his face is upturned and eager.

\-- You're a wizard when you have the ball. Every time I watched Match of the Day it was to catch a glimpse of you, the things you can do. I wanted to be you, more than anything. Getting to play beside you for the first time, that was a dream. A dream.

He flushes, then, aware that he's said far too much. You must be quite a sight, staring at him wide-eyed like you can't believe it. He grins.

\-- I can pinch you, if you'd like.

\-- Yeah.

He leans over, takes a patch of your skin between his fingers, squeezes. You tremble at the touch. He lets go of your skin and slides his hand up your arm instead, till he's balanced with his mouth just inches from yours.

\-- I had posters of you on my wall, he says.

You don't think the sun has ever shone brighter than this.

 

 

*

 

 

Do you know who you're playing for?

 

 

*

 

 

Your name is John Charles Bryan Barnes. You scored the first goal at the Macarana stadium in 1984. You're one of the few players to have been voted PFA Player of the Year twice. You played, in the words of King Kenny, like one of the the most formidable, all-round attacking talents in the world. You are Jamie Redknapp's favourite player. You are also black.

 _Liverpool are magic_ _  
_ _Everton are tragic_

It's come a long way from what you used to hear. The derby is still loud, baying for blood, red versus blue, and that's all there is. No flecks of yellow dot the pitch. No monkeys lurk in the crowd. it isn't perfect, but it's better.

Gerrard to Sturridge to goal. You stand up like everyone else, punching your fist into the air, delighted. Anfield is throbbing with the hearts of thousands, all singing the same song. Like they've been for years. Like they always will.

_Don't be afraid of the dark_

The goalmakers have their arms around each other down there, everyone else is running towards them, the stadium roars. There are kids in the crowd with Daniel's name on their shirt.

Jamie turns to look at you, his face open and bright.

\-- You okay, big man?

You've tried and tried and maybe this is your reward. The people sat next to you still crane their heads back every now and then, not-so-subtly worshipful, and some of them are brave enough to ask you for a picture. _You're my favourite,_ they gush. You. Twelve-year-old from Jamaica.

You nod back at him, throat choked up for no reason. He smiles. Gives you a nudge in the ribs.

\-- You're my favourite, he mimicks, except you know he isn't really joking.

Your hand finds his and gives it a quick squeeze. He flushes like he's seventeen years old meeting his hero for the first time. On the pitch, Raheem's rolling the ball back to the middle. Mamadou yells at the back line to get into shape. Daniel turns and applauds the crowd, who seal their approval with his name. A person, not a colour.

Your shirt is red.

 

 

_"People weren't used to seeing people of color on the field in those days. I was always taught that you're not playing for yourself, you're playing for the people who are coming behind you, and that's what kept me going." - Clyde Best_

 

 

 

 

 

OK SO my footnotes got too long for the endnotes box and they kicked me out of characters which means i'm gonna have to dump shit here instead! and from the basis of that you can. tell. how much there is. Prepare for a Lot of Information

\- Everton chanted 'Everton are white' during the 1987 Merseyside derby. You can hear the chants in the video linked [here](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/john-barnes-week-liverpools-black-superstar-and-the-issue-of-race/) and read more about the derby itself [here](https://books.google.it/books?id=yZiQd3UifZoC&pg=PA182&lpg=PA182&dq=everton+are+white&source=bl&ots=tbu2AE6sQd&sig=8iSktCxQ_tpI12jcBLyER4bh-RQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj5uYv8w4vVAhUJbhQKHWRJBfgQ6AEIRjAI#v=onepage&q=everton%20are%20white&f=false). [Much of this was still present in 2000.](https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2000/jan/07/race.world)  
\- The banana photo is [here](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02058/sport-barnes0_2058991c.jpg), also from the same derby. More on fruit and symbolism [here](http://www.adelaidenow.com.au/news/opinion/richard-evans-throwing-bananas-at-black-sportsmen-has-been-recognised-as-racism-across-europe-for-decades/news-story/afcb5d4a634119b327507e7616755e0b).  
\- More about John Charles, who seems a bit of a forgotten hero, [here](https://sports.vice.com/en_uk/article/gv4x7b/the-gentle-giant-remembering-welsh-football-legend-john-charles).  
\- John was born in Jamaica and moved to England as a 12 year old. His father used to be captain of the national team and was also a Colonel in the army.  
\- The 1987 derby is also known as the 'n*****pool derby' because of the awful chant that Everton directed at John. More about that [here (the first result)](https://books.google.it/books?id=U17FfWeFIsUC&pg=PT175&lpg=PT175&dq=&source=bl&ots=bHSibhApTX&sig=lHmVSCnv2bEH6V93aKMUmvM6Z8M&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiZvJnixYvVAhUDwBQKHQZPB6MQ6AEILDAB#v=onepage&q=out%20of%20his%20skin&f=false), and p. 36 [here](https://books.google.it/books?id=fHqJDAAAQBAJ&dq=&source=gbs_navlinks_s).  
-[ 'Ain't no black in the Union Jack'](https://books.google.at/books?hl=de&id=tXKsAgAAQBAJ&q=ain%27t+no+black+in+the+union+jack#v=snippet&q=ain't%20no%20black%20in%20the%20union%20jack&f=false) was heard during John's debut in 1983 (p. 132). The Gilroy book is quite interesting, as a sidenote.  
\- 17-year-old Redders was one of the most expensive teenagers at the time.  
\- More on Philip Carter's remarks regarding Everton supporters [here](https://www.facebook.com/TheKloppKopEnd/photos/a.761108087381580.1073741828.761094644049591/793070024185386/?type=3&theater).  
\- Liverpudlians are very quick to deny that they were racist (read the way [this](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/john-barnes-week-liverpools-black-superstar-and-the-issue-of-race/) is written), but John himself has said that he [used to get abuse from Liverpool fans](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/competitions/premier-league/8898054/Former-Liverpool-star-John-Barnes-says-society-is-to-blame-for-racism-problem-that-football-just-cant-shift.html), so, I dunno. He's also said in his biography that he was very conscious that the Anfield faithful's trust in him [seemed contingent on how he was playing](https://books.google.it/books?id=QCmtAgAAQBAJ&pg=PT52&lpg=PT52&dq=Race,+Ethnicity+and+Football:+Persisting+Debates+and+Emergent+Issues+john+barnes+crucify&source=bl&ots=N6XaK7fBOk&sig=kPw8h5-f20KXmSWXPqucs4XeIQU&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwii04fnyIvVAhUDvhQKHXxKApoQ6AEIPDAD#v=onepage&q=Race%2C%20Ethnicity%20and%20Football%3A%20Persisting%20Debates%20and%20Emergent%20Issues%20john%20barnes%20crucify&f=false), otherwise they would have 'crucified a struggling black'.  
\- John got a lot of shit before he signed for Liverpool - lots of Liverpool fans telling him to fuck off etc. The 'I hate black people' quote is actually real, from a Liverpool teenager who proudly admitted to 'being in a racist organisation' ([The Culture of Football](http://arizona.openrepository.com/arizona/bitstream/10150/194186/1/azu_etd_2743_sip1_m.pdf), p. 368).  
\- Everyone knows the story of barknapp sharing a bath now and it still ruins me!!!!! I give up w them  
\- Liverpool won the league in 1987/88, John's first season with them. I'm relatively sure he's the first black player to have won the league, but I can't find this in writing, so it's really just an assumption based on which clubs won it during this period. More on that 1987/88 team [here](http://thesefootballtimes.co/2016/07/12/why-liverpools-team-of-1987-88-is-perhaps-english-footballs-finest/).  
\- Phil Thompson called him a [downhill skier](http://www.skysports.com/football/news/11096/10100907/john-barnes-and-his-genius-profile-of-a-watford-and-liverpool-legend). Commentary quote comes from Martin Tyler about [John during the Villa game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Yw27wSs6mI&feature=youtu.be). [This](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/why-seeing-was-believing-with-barnes/) is a beautiful tribute to John that only a Liverpool fan could write, as are [this](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/john-barnes-week-the-greatest-player-ive-ever-seen-at-liverpool/) and [this](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/john-barnes-week-when-doubts-over-digger-where-blown-away-at-anfield/).  
\- The 'bang bang bang' quote is real enough, although it was [directed at Howard Gayle instead](http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/news-and-comment/howard-gayle-liverpool-john-barnes-1980s-racism-anfield-first-black-liverpool-player-a7346961.html) \- Gayle was the first ever black player to play for Liverpool.  
\- [John was incredibly good about Hillsborough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxTGxdh7tvU). He's [always supported JFT96](http://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/john-barnes-always-knew-truth-11388842). Here's him on its [personal impact](http://www.contrast.org/hillsborough/history/barnes.shtm).  
\- John scored the [most incredible goal](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/england/10090290/Brazil-v-England-John-Barnes-recalls-scoring-his-goal-at-the-Maracana-like-having-an-out-of-body-experience.html) at the Macarana. It looks simple but if you watch it about 30 times at 0.25 speed...it's amazing  
\- The National Front were racist at every step of the campaign and [chanted 'we only won 1-0'](http://www.asianimage.co.uk/sport/10789783.John_Barnes__More_than_just_another_footballer/) both there and on the plane back just to get across that goals from black footballers apparently didn't count.  
\- A general article on the first generation of black pioneers [here](http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/news-and-comment/there-was-some-progress-in-the-battle-against-racism-in-the-1990s-but-no-one-wanted-to-speak-out-10233921.html). More on individual pioneers like Viv Anderson and Laurie Cunningham here: [X](https://sabotagetimes.com/football/three-degrees-men-changed-british-football-forever) [X](http://thesefootballtimes.co/2017/06/23/how-the-three-degrees-inspired-a-generation-of-young-black-men/) [X](http://www.express.co.uk/sport/football/291418/Racism-in-football-The-night-Brian-Clough-rescued-my-career) [X](http://mancunion.com/2015/10/20/black-history-month-evening-viv-anderson/) [X](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/liverpool/10367837/Liverpool-FC-book-extract-Howard-Gayle.html) [X](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2016/oct/03/howard-gayle-being-liverpool-first-black-player-was-difficult)  
\- [EMBARRASSINGLY ENTERTAINING ANFIELD RAP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kcy3gwwxat4)  
\- Jamie fanboys about John in the latter half of [this article](http://www.skysports.com/football/news/11096/10100907/john-barnes-and-his-genius-profile-of-a-watford-and-liverpool-legend) and pretty much the whole of their ALOTO episode  
\- Racism is better nowadays but it still isn't gone. More on racism today here: [X](https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/may/07/black-footballers-racism-british-football) [X](http://www.staffs.ac.uk/news/is-racism-back-to-haunt-english-football-tcm4243251.jsp) [X](http://www.bbc.com/sport/football/31541066) [X (warning: v long academic article)](https://dspace.lboro.ac.uk/dspace-jspui/bitstream/2134/12124/3/Fans%2C%20Racism%20and%20British%20Footbal.pdf) [X (warning: v long House of Commons report)](http://www.furd.org/resources/Racism%20in%20football%20Committee%20report%20Volume%201%20sep%202012.pdf) [X](https://www.economist.com/blogs/gametheory/2012/11/football-and-racist-language) [X](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/1476926/Your-view-Racism-in-sport.html) [X](https://dspace.lboro.ac.uk/dspace-jspui/bitstream/2134/17898/3/Racism%20IRSS.pdf)  
\- Stuff on racism in the past (warning, racist language): would thoroughly recommend [this](http://arizona.openrepository.com/arizona/bitstream/10150/194186/1/azu_etd_2743_sip1_m.pdf) research paper as a really informative take on football culture and British society, but also [X](http://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/whats-on/whats-on-news/shocked-players-stories-racism-footballs-9191389) [X](http://www.sirc.org/publik/fvracism.html) [X](http://edition.cnn.com/2012/02/23/sport/football/football-racism-england/index.html) [X](http://www.nsno.co.uk/forums/index.php?topic=16043.15)  
\- More about John himself, as a player and human being: [X](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/john-barnes-week-man-behind-legend/) [X](http://thesefootballtimes.co/2016/04/24/why-john-barnes-deserves-to-be-celebrated-far-and-wide/) [X](http://www.liverpoolfc.com/history/past-players/john-barnes) [X](http://biography.jrank.org/pages/2784/Barnes-John.html) [X](http://www.reggaeboyzsc.com/forum1/showthread.php?t=14511) [X](https://www.theanfieldwrap.com/2016/06/john-barnes-week-digger-on-the-liverpool-way-scousers-and-the-city/) [X  
](http://talksport.com/football/classic-transfer-liverpool-sign-supremely-skilful-england-winger-john-barnes-150609150087)\- Finally, if you're looking for a book on this, [Out of His Skin](https://www.amazon.com/Out-His-Skin-Barnes-Phenomenon/dp/0954013417) is comprehensive

**Author's Note:**

> \- footnotes to footnotes: I'M SORRY THEY WERE SO LONG WOW it was -5000 characters when i finished typing  
> \- Please hit me up if you're interested in talking more about this! As a poc who's been to football matches and been stared at/talked down to (particularly England ones) I have a lot of strong feelings about this, although of course my experiences are completely different from black people's.  
> \- I took almost a month to write this and I'm still not entirely happy with it - I do hope that it felt as important to you as it did to me, though!  
> \- For the monthly word prompt: “i just want to feel like it’s not me vs the world one day”  
> \- [tumblr](http://carraville.tumblr.com), although lately it's just become a sort of confessional Q&A tbh (not that i'm complaining!! i love answering questions)  
> \- Thanks for reading <3


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